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Progress, this great heresy of decay.
Charles Baudelaire
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Charles Baudelaire
Age: 46 †
Born: 1821
Born: April 9
Died: 1867
Died: August 30
Art Critic
Author
Essayist
Literary Critic
Poet
Translator
Writer
Paris
France
Baudelaire
Charles Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaÿs
Charles Pierre Baudelaire
Literature
Great
Heresy
Orthodox
Decay
Progress
More quotes by Charles Baudelaire
The form of a town changes more swiftly alas! Than the heart of a mortal.
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Dancing can reveal all the mystery that music conceals.
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And, drunk with my own madness, I shouted at him furiously, Make life beautiful! Make life beautiful!
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We are all born marked for evil.
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Poetry and progress are like two ambitious men who hate one another with an instinctive hatred, and when they meet upon the same road, one of them has to give place.
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The dance can reveal everything mysterious that is hidden in music, and it has the additional merit of being human and palpable. Dancing is poetry with arms and legs.
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Everything for me becomes allegory
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It is from the womb of art that criticism was born.
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I sit in the sky like a sphinx misunderstood My heart of snow is wed to the whiteness of swans I hate the movement that displaces the rigid lines, With lips untaught neither tears nor laughter do I know.
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Nature is a temple, where the living Columns sometimes breathe confusing speech Man walks within these groves of symbols, each Of which regards him as a kindred thing.
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I love Wagner, but the music I prefer is that of a cat hung up by its tail outside a window and trying to stick to the panes of glass with its claws.
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Who would dare assign to art the sterile function of imitating nature?
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This industry [photography], by invading the territories of art, has become art's most mortal enemy.
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The poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself and others, as he wishes.
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Everything that is beautiful and noble is the product of reason and calculation.
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Even when she walks one would believe that she dances.
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If a given combination of trees, mountains, water, and houses, say a landscape, is beautiful, it is not so by itself, but because of me, of my favor, of the idea or feeling I attach to it.
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Woman is natural, that is to say, abominable.
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Evil is committed without effort, naturally, fatally goodness is always the product of some art.
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How little remains of the man I once was, save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.
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